Coasting
by PaperKayak
Summary: For an AP Literature assignment, I had to write a scene from Ethan Frome using three different points of view. I got an A .


Mattie

We're doing it. Ethan is setting the sled up, aligning the two skates beneath the board with the trails left in the snow from our previous slide. We don't need to steer, he had said, as the sled would follow the grooves worn into the hillside.

Well, mostly. Not at the end. At the end, he's going to turn. And it'll all be over.

I ease myself into the sled, but Ethan stops me with a hesitant hand, and he asks if he could be in front. I argue with him—it's trivial, really, I suppose, but I do like the front—and we volley half-hearted excuses between ourselves for a round or two. He finally says that he wants to be in front so he can feel my arms on him. I don't buy it, but he wants the spot so bad, I let him take it.

Once I have settled myself behind him, my arms wrapped around the frame of Ethan bulked up by layers of winter insulation, Ethan shoves off and the sled begins to move. Ethan's larger body blocks the view in front of me, but I still feel wind and slush whipping past along the sides, nipping at my face.

My heart starts pounding as we accelerate. We seem to be going faster this time than we had the last, probably since the path is already smoothed out. Or perhaps I only feel that we're going faster, due to the thrill. I let out a squeal—whether in fear or delight, I cannot say; the two seem no different to me right now.

I know when we reach the elm, even though I cannot see beyond Ethan. He tenses up as the sled approached. I lean into his back, bracing myself for the final impact. This is it. This is how we're going to end it: him wrapped in my arms.

The impact doesn't come. At least, not the way it's supposed to. A single instant before we hit the elm, the sled lurches to the side. Not enough to dodge the tree altogether, but enough to evade the fatal blow, leaving in its place one just as painful and nowhere near as final.

I let out a cry as Ethan and I are thrown from the sled. I am hurt, injured, somewhere, but I can't tell where. My whole body feels odd, as though numb yet burning, simultaneously. I turn my head—the pain is no less than I feared—and squint through the glaring white of the storm to another dark figure lying prone beside me.

"Ethan?" I manage to gasp out, before my eyes close of their own accord and the world vanishes around me.

Ethan

My target is the elm tree. It sticks up near the bottom of the snow-covered knoll, expectant and beckoning. From here, my vision fogged by snow, the tree could be a large green blade sticking up out of the ground, or a lop-ended shard of green glass. I steered the sled away the last time Mattie and I flew down the hill, mere moments or a lifetime ago.

This time, I won't make the same mistake.

After a quick battle with Mattie over who gets to sit in the front, I take my place in the sled, folding my legs tightly where the wood curled to fit my entire body on the little vehicle. Better that I sit in front, take the brunt of the impact; at the speed we could reach on a sled, the hit should be instantaneous.

I paddle at the ground a few times to get the sled edging forward, and in only a moment, it begins to move of its own momentum. I feel Mattie's arms, warm and slim and soft even beneath her coat, tighten around my waist. (_She's going to die too._)

I lean forward. The elm tree seems to have inflated since we set off (_it's the bridge, Ethan), _and I'm amazed at how rapidly we had approached it. I lean forward (_the bridge between life and death) _preparing to be hit (_life and Hell_) by the full force of the immovable trunk (_are you going to cross it?)._

Mattie shrieks behind me (_she doesn't really want this, Ethan_) and it strikes me in that moment that my desperation (_you don't really want this either_) has been wholly replaced by fear (_you're not ready_). This isn't the way I want to end it (_is it still worth it?_). This isn't the way I want Mattie to cut off her life (_was it ever worth it?_), not so soon, not so viciously, not so suddenly (_there's time to stop_), not when she has a life stretched out before her, yet to be lived (_but there's no space to turn around_).

We're so close. The spiky green branches of the tree fill the entirety (_what about Zeena?_) of my sight, as though the entire universe (_have you forgotten her?_) suddenly revolves around this elm (_she doesn't deserve it, Ethan_), a tiny pinpoint on a tiny earth.

(_You're killing her, Ethan. You're killing yourself, you're killing Mattie, you're killing Zeena, aren't you?_)

I grip the front of the sled tightly, the wood seeming to cut into my gloved hands.

(_You're a murderer, Ethan._)

The elm is seconds away, less than that.

(_Is this what it's come to? Is this better? Is this your solution? Leave one Hell for another?_)

With all the strength left in me, I throw myself to the side, but it isn't in time. The underside of the toboggan collides with the thick wood of the elm, and I find myself skidding through the thick snow, no longer encased by Mattie's arms.

(_You're dying, Ethan. You're too late. You can never go home, can you Ethan? Your home is gone. Dead._)

(_You killed it, Ethan._)

Zeena

I know about Ethan and Mattie. I had known for a long time now. How could I not? The way Ethan looked at her… he looked at me that way once, you know. As though he wanted me.

It's been so long since he's looked at me that way. So long since he wanted me.

Only moments ago, he left to take Mattie to the train station. The girl's face had been flushed and streak from moisture—clear enough that she'd been crying. She'd earned it, really. It was her turn to try. Heaven knows I'd had to do it far more.

It's freezing outside. Below freezing. No matter how precisely we try to insulate the house, the cold still manages to sneak in. My scratchy bedcovers offer only the barest of protection. Is it any wonder my health has declined? Is it any wonder that his attention would wander, would find a target with more youthfulness, more life left to give? I should have known. Right from the moment Mattie Silver stepped through the door for the first time months ago I should have anticipated this.

They're out there now, together. Sure, Ethan has simply taken her to the train station, to depart at long last, but they're still together. I hate that. It's a sin, I know, for me to feel toward girl this unseemly wrath, envy, spite. I do so anyway. What else have I to do?

I lift myself off of the bed to walk to the kitchen, in pursuit of a spot of food. Am I weaker today, slower, more fragile, or am I imagining it? It's so difficult to say. Not a day has gone by that I didn't feel as if I already had one foot in the grave, but how much was physical and how much was mental was up for none less than a doctor to decide.

My cursed imagination. It had grown more and more difficult lately to distinguish what was real from the images scattered about me after having escaped from the confines of my horridly vivid mind. Ethan and Mattie for instance. How much of that was real? What had I only imagined? And how many of those deep glances truly conveyed shared secrets and bridled passion?

Enough. Enough to bring me a pang of relief to know that she's leaving now, and that within hours, she will be out of my life—mine and Ethan's—for good.


End file.
